


House Call

by Battleship



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Autism Spectrum, Autistic Will Graham, Canon Autistic Character, Cuddling, Gen, Meltdown, Stimming, Will Graham Loves His Dogs, and the dogs love Will, but still not a good person, certainly helpful, hannibal is kinda sweet, let's have a chat over pancakes, you can fight me on this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-09
Updated: 2017-05-31
Packaged: 2018-10-29 21:06:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10862097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Battleship/pseuds/Battleship
Summary: Late one evening, Hannibal receives a text from one Will Graham, urging him to come over. Equal parts intrigued and concerned, Hannibal makes his way to Will's house. When he finds Will in the throes of mental anguish, Hannibal must try to keep Will together and help him through the aftermath.oOo"As his mind continues to wander, Hannibal’s phone buzzes twice against the polished mahogany of his desk, signaling the delivery of a text message. He looks thoughtfully at the point he has created, considering who would be texting him at the relatively late hour, carefully pricks his index finger on the graphite, and sets the pencil down parallel to his patient log. Taking up his phone, he opens up a text message from Will. A small smile forms on Hannibal’s lips as he reads. 'Do you make house calls?'"





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! So this is my first time writing or posting anything, so I hope I've managed to do everything correctly. Please be aware that this fic contains fairly graphic descriptions of self-injurious stimming in conjunction with a meltdown. If this is in any way problematic for you, please do not read this. I would hate for anyone to come to harm. Other than that, I hope you enjoy!

Hannibal sits at his desk, meditatively sharpening his pencils. The scalpel makes a whisper-soft _scritch_ as it whittles the wood into a fine point. Hannibal's thoughts have, naturally, been centered around Will, and just what to do with him and his beautiful, tragic brain. Watching the man’s mind become consumed in fire has been exciting, but it is by no means the extent to which Hannibal intends to push his plaything.

As his mind continues to wander, Hannibal’s phone buzzes twice against the polished mahogany of his desk, signaling the delivery of a text message. He looks thoughtfully at the point he has created, considering who would be texting him at the relatively late hour, carefully pricks his index finger on the graphite, and sets the pencil down parallel to his patient log. Taking up his phone, he opens up a text message from Will. A small smile forms on Hannibal’s lips as he reads. “Do you make house calls?”

Grabbing his jacket from the back of his chair, Hannibal calls Will’s cell. It rings once and then goes to voicemail. He just denied my call, Hannibal thinks, bristling at the thought of Will’s rudeness. All the same, he is growing increasingly worried about what sort of trouble Will might be in to so forwardly request his assistance. 

In his hand, his phone buzzes again. This time the text reads, “Don’t call. Can’t talk. Please come.”

Hannibal can sense Will’s desperation even through so few words, so he types a reply assuring Will that he is on his way and then begins the drive to Wolftrap.

oOo

As Hannibal pulls up to Will’s house, he sees that all the lights are off, the house a looming shadow somehow darker and more imposing than the surrounding night. Hannibal will be extremely disappointed if he drove all this way to find Will asleep. Getting out of his car, he sees a new message on his phone which reads, “door unlockes no knok jus come inn” Hannibal frowns at the composition; Will is usually very precise with his messages, texting in a way that conveys a certain level of discomfort with its casual and strangely personal nature. 

So, Hannibal walks up to the door and swings it open as he was instructed, stepping across the threshold so carefully that the leather soles of his oxfords make hardly a sound against the wooden floor. The room is nearly pitch black, the only light coming from hints of the half moon peeking in through the open windows. Just as he is about to reach out and flip the light switch, Hannibal pauses as his ears register an incongruous sound. Barely audible above the snoring of dogs emanating from behind Will’s closed bedroom door, he can pick out a sort of breathless gasping coming from somewhere to his right. 

His eyes having adjusted as much as they were going to in the dimness, he directs his vision to the corner, where he sees the hunched and quivering form of Will Graham. His back is pressed against the wall and his already relatively small frame looks positively diminutive in his current state. “Will?” Hannibal breathes in a voice just above a whisper. He gets no response except for the breathing to grow more rapid and ragged, as well as noticeably louder. “Will, what’s wrong? I need you to tell me what you are feeling so that I can help you.”

Will lets out a strangled, helpless moan and begins rocking back and forth with his knees pulled to his chest, tapping the back of his head against the wall as if to punctuate his misery. Hannibal tsks. “Will, we can’t have you hurting yourself.” He pulls a throw pillow from the couch and goes to crouch next to Will. He then places the pillow between Will’s head and the wall. The sharp sound of cranium connecting with drywall is dampened to a dull thud. Despite this interference, Will continues to rock, which Hannibal recognizes to mean that this is about something other than Will wanting to cause himself harm. 

The psychiatrist in Hannibal knows exactly what this is about, the killer in him takes immense pleasure in seeing Will’s internal world crumbling, but the friend in Hannibal urges him to do what he can to help lessen the torment. It appears that he has developed a fondness for Will. Later, this will undoubtedly lead to a conflict of interest, but Hannibal is certain that now he must assist Will in putting the parts of himself in order again. 

Will’s hands, which had previously been covering his face and eyes, move to grab thick handfuls of curls and tug on them, keeping time with his sustained rocking. “Hey, none of that, William. This is not the way to solve the problems plaguing your mind.” Hannibal understands the reasoning and mechanisms behind such self-injurious behavior. He also knows that Will must be prevented from causing serious and lasting harm to himself. Hannibal grasps Will’s hands and begins the delicate process of untangling them from his slightly sweaty locks. Hannibal’s touch causes Will to visibly tense up even more, if that were possible, but Hannibal knows that the discomfort is necessary.

“Now, let’s see if we can’t help you a bit, hm?” Hannibal soothes, holding Will’s hands firmly and tucks them into the space between Will’s chest and knees, the position providing a bit of pressure to his hands and forearms. After a few oscillations, Will extricates his hands and starts repeating an odd sort of motion, both hands starting down low and then rising to his chin, as if picking something up.

Hannibal, having a passing knowledge of ASL from his med school days and also possessing a certain amount of mental acuity, translates the sign. “Blanket?” he asks, slightly proud when Will manages a small nod. “You want me to get you a blanket?”

_Yes, yes_ , Will nods, a high-pitched keening coming from the back of his throat. He jabs his finger in the direction of the hallway linen closet violently a few times before flapping his hand and then grasping it to his chest once more.

Although reluctant to leave Will’s side, Hannibal stands and crosses the room to the small closet. Inside are stacked towels and a few extra sheet sets, and it takes a handful of seconds before Hannibal can find something which actually classifies as a blanket.

The blanket is dark and, Hannibal is only mildly surprised to discover as he reaches out to grasp it, substantially heavy. He gathers the blanket up in his arms and walks back to Will, who is in much the same state as he left him.

“Here you are, dear Will. This will bring you some relief,” Hannibal assured him as he drapes the middle of the blanket around Will’s back and crosses the two ends around his front, enveloping him in a cocoon of soft fabric and soothing pressure. Hannibal sits next to Will, his back against the wall, and resolves to ride out this storm along with him. Soon the keens begin to die in Will’s throat, although the rocking continues, albeit in a much reduced capacity, for at least another fifteen minutes. All things considered, Will seems to be recovering fairly well, although he is visibly exhausted by the ordeal. Finally, Will slumps over sideways to rest his head on Hannibal’s shoulder, and Hannibal reaches around and squeezes Will tightly around the chest, providing even more of the calming pressure, as well as a reassuring human touch. 

It takes a few minutes for Hannibal to hear the hitching gasps which Will is emitting. Worried that he may be backsliding into another meltdown, Hannibal uses a firm hand to grasp Will’s face and turn it to his own. What he sees there is not the panic from earlier but rather a deep, weary sadness. Tears roll from his eyes, snake down his face, and coalesce at his chin, before dropping with an unsatisfying finality onto the blanket.

“Oh, William. There is no need for tears. I am here to help you.” Will only hiccoughs in response. Hannibal allows a fond noise to rumble from his chest as he begins to stroke Will’s hair with a heavy hand. Will’s sputtering breaths eventually even out and deepen, signaling his descent into a heavy and dreamless sleep. 

oOo

Waking up, the first thing Will notices is the terrible itching of his eyes. As he moves a hand to rub at the irritation, he realizes that his hands are rather effectively bound within his weighted blanket. His blanket is, in turn, being held in place by none other than his psychiatrist. The initial confusion lasts for no more than fifteen seconds before the events of last night come violently stampeding through his memory. Just thinking of the meltdown causes Will to begin the panic a bit, his breath once again becoming ragged and quick.

Hannibal must have detected this change, because he is now awake as well. He squeezes Will tightly while making little hushing noises, which does way more to help Will calm down than he is willing to admit. He focuses on Hannibal’s soothing presence and the quiet noises of the dogs still snoring in the other room until his breathing and heart rate are both back to acceptable levels. 

“Ah. There you are, William. How are you feeling this morning?”

Tired, sore, embarrassed, empty. Will can think of a hundred words to describe how he’s feeling. None of them fit quite like he’d like them to, but they’ll have to do. But when he opens his mouth, he cannot coax a single one to fall from behind his teeth. He shakes his head and tries again, knowing full well that he cannot expect a different result.

He shrugs and throws a helpless look over Hannibal’s left shoulder, not able to even consider meeting his eyes presently. “Can’t find your words at the moment?” Will shakes his head sadly. Hannibal hums. “I understand, William. Would you like to sign? I believe my skills are sufficient,” Hannibal asks, remembering Will’s frantic request for his blanket. Will shakes his head again. No, his hands are in the blanket and Hannibal is still holding him and he needs the pressure and if he doesn’t have it he will simply fly apart, ashes to ashes and dust to dust. 

“That is fine. We may sit like this for a few more minutes, and then I would like get some food in you. I’m sure you could use the energy.” Will’s stomach makes an appropriately-timed noise of agreement, and Hannibal lets out a low chuckle before returning his hand to carding through Will’s hair.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the events of last night, Will and Hannibal settle in for some dogs, breakfast, and an important conversation.

Of course, there comes a time when we must all get up and get on with our lives. This time came for Will and Hannibal about three and a half minutes later, when scratching could be heard from the other side of Will’s bedroom door.

“I believe the dogs have decided to join the land of the living,” Hannibal announces as he gently presses Will away from himself, encouraging him to stand on shaky legs. Will hold his around his shoulders, a facsimile of a child pretending to be Superman with a towel cape. He plods with unsteady steps over to his door and opens it. To Hannibal’s surprise, the dogs do not come bounding out as expected, but rather walk calmly to the area around Will’s feet and gaze up at him with obvious concern and affection.

Winston in particular seems especially empathetic, standing directly against Will’s leg, leaning heavily into him and nuzzling him until Will reaches down to run his fingers through the soft fur. Hannibal gazes at the pair with unmistakable tenderness as much of the remaining tension in Will’s features melts into a weak grin.

Clearing his throat, Hannibal announces, “I’ll get started on breakfast, then.” He heads to the kitchen to see if he can scrounge up anything edible from the cupboards, a ghost of a grin pulling at the corners of his mouth.

oOo

Once he has created a fairly decent meal of pancakes and sliced fruit, Hannibal makes his way back into the front room, carrying a plate in each hand. Will sits sideways on the couch with his feet up on the cushion. Winston and a few of his other dogs are lying either on his legs or near him on the couch, while the rest of them are sitting on the ground near Will. When Hannibal enters, Will looks up from where he had previously been gazing, mesmerized, at Winston’s fur as he stroked it. He cast a sheepish grin in Hannibal’s general direction, failing again to meet his eyes. Hannibal is pleased to have been acknowledged and returns the expression.

Hannibal hands Will one of the plates and pulls over the ottoman to sit on. Toying with a sliver of strawberry, Will manages, “I...I think I’m okay with talking now.” His voice is rough and quiet, and his overall demeanor is laced with general discomfort of the whole situation. Hannibal smiles a bit and nods in encouragement.

“That is excellent to hear.” He lets the conversation drop and they both eat a bit from their plates.

Apparently finding the silence unbearable, Will starts again. “So, do we need to talk or…?” his question trails off.

“Would you like to talk?” Will shrugs. “You have only just found your words again. I do not wish to cause you further discomfort by imploring you to express what may very well be indescribable to you.”

Will nods thoughtfully, chewing a bite of pancake, then responds, “Thank you. For showing up. For helping. For all of it. I...I really appreciate it.”

“It is no trouble, Will. You asked for my assistance. I will always be here to help you.”

“That’s just it, though. I’m a grown man! I shouldn’t need help!” Winston, sensing the change in Will’s behavior, move to lay himself more heavily across Will’s chest. 

“Will, you are a unique man. Everyone has challenges, some more than others, and yours allow you to help others. The hallmark of a true gift is the ability to use that gift to better the world at large.”

Will huffs, but his demeanor returns from bristling to general mopiness. 

“Will,” Hannibal waits until Will’s attention is relocated to his general direction. “If I may ask: where do you fall on the spectrum?”

Will’s heart speeds up every so slightly and he feels vaguely nauseous, even though he knows logically he has no reason to be anxious or ashamed. Hannibal is a psychiatrist: if he’d been ignorant of this aspect of Will up until last night, he’s quite honestly an insult to the profession. Hannibal’s words echo those of Jack Crawford all those months ago. Yet, where his were prying and accusatory, Hannibal’s are soft and inquisitive. Will sucks in a breath.

“Depends on who you ask. Dad took me to a therapist when I was four, said it’s nothing, I’d grow out of it, don’t worry.” Will chuckles ever so quietly before continuing, “School psychologist at seven said classic autism, private one during middle school said Asperger’s. I’ve gotten a few others before. PDD-NOS, bipolar. I’ve got a nice collection going at this point.” Will shrugs, attention back to stroking Winston’s fur. 

Hannibal pauses thoughtfully before asking, “Well, what do you think? It’s your mind. You are the authority here, Will, not the men who go poking around in your brain like they are playing I Spy.”

Will shrugs again, contemplative, if not completely comfortable. The small room has the familiar atmosphere of a lazy Saturday morning, and Will hates to spoil it with talk of such things.

“I don’t know. I guess I’m still trying to figure it out myself.”

oO fin Oo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So now that's all done :) Sorry it took me so much longer than expected (and sorry it's so short [like, looking at it now, it's super short. oops] ). I hope you enjoyed! I try to handle topics such as autism and mental health in general with as much tact and respect as possible, so I hope I've not offended anyone. 
> 
> Please let me know what you thought! Have a wonderful day!

**Author's Note:**

> So that's the first chapter done! I hope to have the conclusion up within the next week, so check back if you've enjoyed the fic! Let me know what you think in the comments!


End file.
